Duty
by HouseFreak
Summary: He did his duty. They owed him theirs. OneShot. Drabbleish in the sense of notmuchofaplot. R&R, please!


**Duty**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own House MD, or any of the characters mentioned in this fic.I'm simply "borrowing" them for a short time…Song snippet at the end not mine; borrowed that too. **"I'm Not Okay"- My Chemical Romance.**

Dr. House blinked rapidly in the early morning light (it's too early). He threw the covers off his bed, and rubbed his thigh slowly before stumbling out of bed (it hurts so much). He sighed and limped into the bathroom. He took a quick, hot shower, washed his face, got dressed, and headed out the door of his apartment. He limped over to his motorcycle, deposited his cane into the spot designated for it, and got on (I wish that cane was never there). After revving the engine a few times for good measure (why the hell not?), he slid the helmet visor over his eyes and sighed, taking off. He didn't want to go to work today (not that that ever changed). But he had to.

It was his duty.

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Dr. House limped into the hospital after parking his bike, and groaned inwardly at the hustle and bustle of the hospital. A female voice rang out, "House!" (shame I have to yell at him this early in the morning). House limped quickly towards the elevators, and pressed the button. Apparently, someone was on it, because it took twice as long as usual for the elevator doors to slide open. House jabbed the button a few more times, as if to show to no one in particular just how annoyed he was (like always). Cuddy walked quickly over to the elevator, and pointedly glared at House as the elevator doors opened and he stepped inside. "You owe me 3 hours of clinic duty today," Cuddy said. House muttered a response, but nevertheless nodded. Cuddy raised her eyebrows in question (why so easy?). "It hurts," was his simple reply (how much more did I expect?). A quick glance of sympathy was her response, mixed with a nod of understanding. She knew he was in so much pain. She knew it was different this time. It wasn't just his leg. It was his heart. She knew not to expect him in tomorrow. But she still had to expect him to work (even though it hurts to see him in pain).

It was her duty.

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Dr. House limped into the diagnostic office, and his three ducklings were already there. Cameron stifled a yawn as she handed him a cup of warm coffee (it's an instinct). She filled the team in on the patient's latest symptoms (though I'm not really into it). They talked about a small range of differential diagnoses, eliminating and re-valuating. After a confident diagnosis from House, and an order of the conformational test, Chase and Foreman left the room. "Coming?" Chase asked. "Just a second," Cameron replied (I need to talk to him). House walked into his office (his limping's worse); knowing but not acknowledging Cameron's presence as she followed him. He sat down heavily in his chair, and picked up his red tennis ball. Despite an absent invite to sit down (like I'd ever get one), Cameron planted herself in a chair opposite House. An awkward silence followed her gesture, until Cameron boldly broke it. "It hurts, doesn't it?" she asked. Receiving a "Duh" glance from House, she added, "More than usual." He nodded abstractedly (why would he care?). "You know why, don't you?" Cameron asked (I'm stepping into dangerous territory). House turned his head to study her, and cocked an eyebrow (he's daring me). "Because you're miserable. And seeing someone, anyone, even a patient get their true love, and their happiness fulfilled… makes you even more miserable," she said. He stared at her for a long time, silent (he knows I'm right). After a few minutes of silence, she realized she'd better go. He had a lot to think about at the moment (not that I helped alleviate that). She wanted to help him, she really did. But she had to let him go.

It was her duty.

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Dr. House limped into the lab to find the test results. "Patient tested positive for amyloidosis," Chase informed him (no surprise there). House just nodded; a small, triumphant smile tugged at his lips. House leaned against the lab doorframe, lightly massaging his thigh muscle again. He popped a Vicodin (when doesn't he have one of those?), and told the team they had a few clinic hours to do before they could go home. As the three ducklings left the lab wearily, Chase was the only one that noticed House sink heavily down into the chair in the lab, face in his hands (what's his problem?). Chase wanted to stick around, and see what House would do next. He had a pretty good idea (he's breaking down. He can't take it anymore). But he knew he had to attend to the patients in the clinic.

It was his duty.

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Dr. House limped into the diagnostic office again, this time just to collect his things. "Hey," Foreman said. House turned to look at his just-slightly subordinate; a little surprised he was still there. "You've been pretty quiet and low-key today. You feeling alright?" Foreman questioned of his boss (why do I care? This is a good thing!). "It's worse," House said. Foreman didn't have to ask (not exactly subtle with his leg, is he?). Foreman knew from the look of absolute pain on his boss's face that this time was different. He knew his boss was in indescribable pain; not only physically, but perhaps even more so emotionally. He knew this would be it. But he knew he couldn't stop him. He had to let House figure it out on his own.

It was his duty.

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Dr. House limped over to his piano, throwing his bag on the couch. He sat down on the piano bench, heaving a long-suffering sigh (I can't take it anymore). He played some clearly depressing songs, and thought. About everything. About nothing. He dwelled on his pain, mostly (I'm not okay). He played for an hour (or has it been two? I can't remember). He finally decided. After hours (no, days…. Weeks… Years). It was time. He popped open the lid of his Vicodin and poured them out onto the piano keys. One by one he swallowed them (when can I stop?). One by one he played the melancholy notes. One by one his senses failed him (why is pain the last one?). As they finally began to take affect, he played and played his last song. He poured everything out into those notes. He sobbed, heart-rending, soul-ripping sobs (I can't take it!). His tears fell mercilessly onto the keys. His fingers danced with the keys, threatening them to stop. He shook with the pain of it all. He cried; screamed (can't they hear me?). He threw every fiber of his being into those notes. They were the last thing that he'd care about. The last thing he'd touch. He screamed a last agonizing scream (it hurts so much). His head fell back, and his tears came to a stop. With one last note, one more tear fell onto the key (can I do this?). He took a shaky step away from the piano (I have to, now). He fell gracelessly onto the floor next the piano. He clenched the piece of paper in his hand. He whimpered a few last times. He cried a few last tears. He breathed a final word, "Sorry."

He'd done his duty.

_But you really need to listen to me._

_Because I'm telling you the truth._

_I mean this, I'm okay!  
(Trust me)_

_I'm not okay!  
I'm not okay!_

_I'm not okay!_

_I'm not o-fucking-kay!  
I'm not okay!_

_I'm not okay!_

_(Okay_

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**A/N:** Hope you liked it. First attempt at a suicidal!House fic… LOL. Email chapt. 5 is on its way… XD. Please review. I want to know what you think about it… Hehe. This is the product of my 1 am mind… XD


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